Monday, 13 July 2009

Hangdog expressions

The village square has been quiet up until the bellringing practice started. This has changed considerably from the days when Mr Grigg and I did our bit for the community by pulling on the ropes and making some sort of tune. Frankly, the bellringers tonight sound a whole lot better.

We never intended to be bellringers in the first place. But beware drunkenly telling a passer-by when the bells are ringing in the new year that you've always fancied taking up campanology. Cue a deputation of ringers on your doorstep the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that until you give in and then say 'oh, all right then, if you're desperate'. And then you realise it was Number One Son they were really after but he's far too cool to get involved, thank you very much, and then you're lumbered.

This evening, Mr Grigg and Mr Sheepwash are in their whites complaining about dirty gloves on the cricket pitch in a pathetic attempt to put off the opposition before heading over to the pub for a cider or five. Celebrity Farmer is flushed from the success of his first auditon with Deal Or No Deal - 'you know Maddie, the audition where they decide if you've got the face for TV'.

The parish councillors are in the village hall doing their bit for the community under the watchful eye of Atilla the Hen. Pelly's poultry have abandoned their recent rooftop prison protest and gone to bed. Russell's Crow is silent.

Mrs Bancroft and Pelly are wrapped up like best buddies in a school meeting, Night Nurse is sitting at her table gazing at her new computer (imagine a caveman being first shown the wheel). Mr St John and Lady Friend are doing a 'shall we, shan't we dance' all over the village and Posh Totty 2 and the original are probably having a great time poring over the Boden catalogue as they contemplate spending their Gold Rush cash.

And me? Feeling sorry for myself because I have no money because a) I've just come back from holiday and b) two of my customers forgot to pay me. To cap it all, there is no wine in a house, which is empty apart from Flat Stanley waving at me from the corner of the bedroom.

One thing I noticed about church bell ringers in the villages I lived in are that they like a good drink after a hard day's ringing. And I mean a good drink. Maybe you should hit up the bell ringers for a glass or two of wine?

Well of course you feel a bit down.1. You've left paradise, and as nice as it is to come home, home is not blue sky, white sand and tavernas2. You agreed to take part in the latest version of the tupperware party. It sounds like a horrible evening, even if the food and drink might have been good.3. Your only company is Flat Stanley, and he hasn't bothered to bring any wine.Go ahead.......have a moan. It's called for.

no wine. bad. backs of cupboards? good. bell ringing? surprising, have to shift mental pic of you. the only bell ringers round here are very unstable! Mind you, I fear I AM Night Nurse, without any plasters or bandages to call my own that is.